


A Holmesian Went Traveling

by MadameGiry25



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Advent Calendar, Angst, Christmas, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-03 05:09:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 7,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1066138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameGiry25/pseuds/MadameGiry25
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of responses for this year's Advent Calendar challenge put on by Hades Lord of the Dead. Humor, angst, friendship, and many more genres. I make no apologies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all! Here's my humble offering for the 2013 December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness! (Yep, I'm determined to make that name stick, Hades!) This is also being submitted for the Advent challenge at the Reviews Lounge, Too forum, but slightly bending the rules as far as number of entires because Blue and Aiko love me. ;)
> 
> We will be given a prompt assigned by one of the other authors participating in the challenge every day in December and it will be our task to write something based on it. With some luck, this will (hopefully) be updated daily for your reading pleasure!
> 
> The December 1st prompt, as assigned by Galaxy1001D:
> 
> Write a story where Holmes pokes fun at Watson's writing.

_[The following is a snippet from a piece of newspaper, rescued from the fireplace of 221B Baker Street by Mr. Sherlock Holmes in order to prove a point. While much of it has burned away, what remained was still legible, but Mr. Holmes has transcribed the original text and the scribbled comments for posterity onto a fresh piece of paper.]_

We could see that the only light in the room came from a dull blue flame which flickered from a small brass tripod in the centre. It threw a livid, unnatural circle upon the floor, while in the shadows beyond we saw a vague loom of two figures which crouched upon a wall. From the open door there reeked a horrible poisonous exhalation which set us gasping and coughing.

_Watson, I really must protest at your melodramatic and fanciful need to romanticize everything in this case._

**I know not what you mean by that, Holmes. How many times must we go over the finer nuances of the creative craft?**

_As many times as it takes for you to realize that the public is disinterested in fiction where there should be reality. Let fiction remain in its own world!_

Holmes rushed to the top of the stairs to draw in the fresh air, and then, dashing into the room, he threw up the window and hurled the brazen tripod out into the garden.

"We can enter the room in a minute," he gasped, darting out again. "Where is a candle? I doubt if we could strike a match in that atmosphere. Hold the light and the door and we shall get them out, Mycroft, now!"

_A blatantly shameless way of making such a thing as this into romantic heroism._

**It wasn't meant to come across as romantic. And what you did was commendable, Holmes. There's no getting around that, whether or not you care to admit it.**

_Perhaps I would care to admit such a thing if you could portray me in a more humanized manner._

**Perhaps you should act in a more humanized manner.**

_I know not what you mean by that._

With a rush we got to the poisoned men and dragged them out into the well-lit hall. Both of them were blue-lipped and insensible with swollen, congested features and protruding eyes. Indeed, so distorted were their features that , save for his black beard and stout figure, we might have failed to recognize in one of them the Greek interpreter who had parted from us only a few hours before at the Diogenes Club.

_I suppose I cannot fault you for your astute, medical judgment as you describe their symptoms._

**I would hope not.**

_And yet, you feel the need to bring sentiment into your writing by way of the Diogenes –_

**Do not even go so far as that, Holmes.**

_Might I go so far as to-_

**I doubt it.**

His hands and feet were securely strapped together, and he bore over one eye the marks of a violent blow.

_If I were so inclined to say so, I might say that your sentence formation is rather awkward, my dear Watson. If you want to say something, you should say it properly and clearly._

**I could never expect you to –**

_I've had my fair experience at the creative craft, Watson. You've seen the essays I have had published._

**I rather think that academic work does not fall into the same category.**

_Perspective is everything, Wats-_

_[Here ended what remained of the newspaper, but Mr. Holmes wishes that his personal amusement be registered.]_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The December 2nd prompt, as assigned by I'm Nova: "Toby is a kindred spirit."
> 
> This actually is a scene from my current WIP The Sickening, and takes place around Chapter 13/14. For those of you who are not familiar with that work, just know that this takes place post-Hiatus, with Watson and Mary married, and that Watson had to be away from his wife for a period of time, and she ran into trouble with people threatening her and the people she stayed with while he was away. 
> 
> What up shameless plug! ;)

Mary had often lamented the fact that the Watson's were without a dog. Her husband was somewhat less than fond of animals, but even he could see the logic in her request; his absence to the Deramores had left his wife in a very vulnerable state. In reality, they both know that the circumstances in London would not be so different than they had been, but that didn't change the fact that they might have been able to do something about it.

"I blame myself for what happened," Watson admitted, as he sat in front of the fireplace of 221B with his wife at his side. "I am only thankful that it wasn't worse."

"We experienced no physical harm," said Mary gently, reaching a hand out from her position on the sofa to touch her husband's arm. "No damage done that cannot be reversed."

"Even so," exhaled Watson, looking distant, "Our business forced us to leave all of you women alone when we knew that there was danger afoot. We should have known that something like this would happen. I can't imagine what Mrs. Lestrade felt when that man was threatening her…" He trailed off, and put his head in his hands. "Our families should not have been dragged into this business."

Mary was silent for a long moment. As she opened her mouth to respond, she was given pause by a sharp rapping at the door downstairs. The sheer volume of the sound attracted the attention of husband and wife, and they looked at each other in confusion before getting to their feet and making their way downstairs. The walk appeared to be slightly painful for Watson, who gripped his cane tightly, but Mary's steadying hand assisted them both in descending.

It was Mrs. Hudson's day out, and Holmes had disappeared without a trace, yet again, so the foyer was deserted. Another knock at the door sounded before the sound of running feet could be heard. Looks were exchanged before Watson pulled the door open. At their feet sat a very familiar creature who looked up at them with pathetic, loving eyes.

"Toby!" exclaimed Watson in astonishment, struggling down to his knees to get a better look at the stubby, little dog.

It was indeed. Toby was an ugly long haired, lop-eared creature, half spaniel and half lurcher, brown and white in colour, with a very clumsy waddling gait*. His face appeared to be eternally grinning, and he lapped at Watson's face, as the latter glanced around the street in search of the owner. When no one was forthcoming, he attempted to fight his bad limb in an effort to stand, but Mary was at his side once more, helping him up.

She smiled down at Toby, allowing him to sniff at her hand and finally lick it as a token of appreciation. "He's the most adorable thing!" she exclaimed, kneeling down to let the dog put his paws on her shoulder and kiss at her face.

Watson didn't quite look convinced, but still chuckled at the two of them. "If you say so, dearest."

Mary was still cuddling with the dog, who was just slightly too large to be able to fit comfortably on her lap. She looked up at her husband, still beaming. "John, how would you feel about taking Toby home with us?"

This, naturally, made Watson start, unsure of what to say here. "Are you sure, Mary? What would we do with a dog of this size?"

"You said yourself that you wished you had been able to leave someone to care for us in your absence," Mary felt obliged to point out. "Besides. This little one needs a home. And Mr. Holmes himself spoke very highly of him."

Her words had struck a point, and Watson sighed, shaking his head at her. "If you wish." But he couldn't keep a serious face for very long, and he helped his wife to her feet, holding her closely and kissing her on the lips as Toby scarpered around at their feet. "Mrs. Watson."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Taken from Sign of Four.
> 
> Before my BBC fans stage a revolution on me, Toby was indeed a dog in canon, and appeared in Sign of Four. Another clever move by Moffat! :D


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The December 3rd prompt as assigned by Wordwielder: "Watson starts decorating the flat for Christmas."
> 
> Little 221B for your pleasure!

He'd thought that last year had been bad. But he was wrong.

Pink bows on his front door? He could cope with that.

Gaudy Christmas wreathes? Painful, but manageable.

But that scarf that was now draped lovingly over the mantelpiece? God have mercy.

If he thought about it, he wasn't even sure that freezing children would be willing to accept such a scarf as that. Christmas colors that tried to claw his eye out with their garishness, and what in the world was that pattern supposed to be anyway? And the wool was so frayed that it made him feel an itch just because he stood in the same room.

Watson was looking at the thing with an expression of contentment as he straightened it carefully. "Cheers up the room nicely, don't you think?"

And he just shook his head helplessly. "Whatever you say, Watson."

His flat mate looked back at him amusedly. "Don't tell me you object to Christmas decorations in the flat?"

"Of course not. But I do object to… certain examples of a questionably decorative nature," he responded evenly.

"I'm sure that Mary would be happy to discuss her handiwork with you."

A shake of the head. Really…


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The December 4th prompt as assigned by SheWhoScrawls: "Dynamite."

The explosion had left smoke and blood smeared over the fresh snow.

It'd been a simple experiment; he'd wanted to discover a method of preventing lit dynamite from exploding. Watson disapproved, so he had decided to do it when he was home alone. Done the appropriate measures before lighting it and sticking his hand out the window…

It didn't work.

It had all happened so fast that he'd hardly had time to let go of the stuff before it turned against him; he had no specific data to prove it, but he wondered if his protective measures had actually sped up the process of detonation.

He'd been lucky; the amount of dynamite he had chosen to test was relatively small, and had been a bit less than a meter away from his hand when it had exploded. Still, the explosion had been ruinous, and he was now kneeling on the floor under the window, clutching a burned, bloodied appendage to his chest.

The pain hadn't quite registered in his mind yet, but he knew that wouldn't last for long. He was just trying to wrap his brain around what had happened, wondering what in the world had gone wrong. Carelessly staggering to his feet as the blood from his hand dragged across the wall under the window, he peered over the sill out onto the street below. The scraps of the dynamite were strewn across the icy cobblestones; if he squinted, he could see the remains of a bundle of mistletoe that he had previously thrown out the window in annoyance at Mary's insistence that the flat needed some brightening up.

_What aim that was…_

He fell back onto his knees again, grimacing as the full effect of the pain was now fully present in his mind. A groan of pain escaped his lips as he attempted to yank himself into a standing position. There were some effects of shock upon his mind, but he didn't see why he shouldn't be able to pull out of it and regain control over his limbs.

"Mr. Holmes, I don't care what you say, John agrees with me. Your flat needs cheering."

He looked up as Mary's voice floated through the closed door, and he squinted in confusion. How long had it been since the explosion had happened that she had not heard nor seen anything? He coughed several times, looking around at his position splayed out on the floor after having lost his balance.

She knocked twice before pausing and then opening the door, apparently laboring under the delusion that familiarity with her husband's friend allowed her access to the flat at any time. Apparently married life with a doctor had prepped her sufficiently that she simply looked surprised and sympathetic, rather than lightheaded at the sight of the blood. In a moment, she had set her things down on the table and was kneeling down at his side, gently examining the wound.

* * *

When Watson made his way up the stairs a while later, he found himself faced with Holmes lying on the sofa, his blood wiped upon his wife's pink dress. In all honesty, it was so surprising that he found himself at a loss for words, looking from person to person before the bandage that was wrapped around his friend's hand registered in his mind and he managed to shake himself awake.

"What in the world happened here?" he asked, shedding his coat and tossing it upon his favorite chair.

Mary seemed content to allow Holmes to answer, and he looked slightly annoyed at her for her trouble. As he looked back to Watson, he shrugged lightly, deliberately not looking at the bowl that was tainted with bloody water sat next to him on the table. "Perhaps you were correct regarding that experiment, Watson."

And Watson simply shook his head, looking incredulous. "I have no idea what to tell you, my friend."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The December 5th prompt, as assigned by I'm Nova: "Keeping a secret from Sherlock - even about his Christmas gift - is exhausting"

As if it hadn't been hard enough deciding upon a gift for Holmes, his flat mate had to go and make this process even harder.

When he'd originally brought the gift home, he'd stowed it under his bed until he could find a better hiding place. While Holmes wasn't the type to go looking for a gift, he still wouldn't put it past him to look under his bed for reasons that seemed logical to only him. No, I did not take your oil of vitriol and put it under my bed, Holmes. Just stop asking.

But now, under the bed was simply not going to do. Watson, why is there a tie pin under your bed? You never wear tie pins with jewel adornments. 

Under the bed was definitely not going to do for any of his gifts apparently. He'd been storing all of them under the bed, and hadn't really been in the mood to explain the true purpose of the tie pin that definitely was not for either of them. Watson I do hope that you aren't giving away romantic novels again. Mrs. Hudson was not amused.

Searching around the flat, it became obvious that there weren't many good places he could try. Dr. Watson, you simply cannot be climbing on my icebox. 

And yet, he was still determined. Watson, I hate to tell you what you should be doing but I don't think that roof-climbing should be high on your list.

Hunting round and round the flat, days counting down to Christmas. Watson, your sudden interest in my drawer is a bit alarming. Your chequebook is staying put.

Still. Keeping a secret from Holmes was something that he was determined to manage. For once in his life.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The December 6th prompt, as assigned by Book girl fan: "Anything can happen over a game of chess."

It wasn't that Geoff Lestrade disliked the Christmas season. On the contrary. He enjoyed the festive atmosphere, the carolers and musicians in the street, the food and the company. Or lack thereof. Because there was one thing about Christmas that he definitely disliked. And that was when he was forced to watch his wife become so utterly frazzled about the time of year.

She was always in motion once December came around, preparing food, scrubbing at the house and the children, nerves frayed as she tried to complete her monstrous list of tasks. To be perfectly honest, he didn't quite see how every single one of those tasks was actually necessary.

And every year, he pointed that out to her. "Annie, darling, you really don't have to change the sheets on the guest bed that haven't been used since the last time that you changed them. I will personally ensure that nobody visits the guest room if it would make you feel better."

"It's not about that, Geoff," she would snap. "It's about making our house presentable to our guests."

"Because the inspectors from the Yard are so overly concerned with cleanliness."

And that was the point he usually clammed up, knowing that he was pushing her too far with his teasing. But he really didn't understand it. More often than not, Holmes and the doctor came to their house for a few hours every Christmas, a few of his fellow inspectors, perhaps a few of Holmes' little homeless network boys might come to join. It was undoubtedly cozy, but everyone always seemed to have a wonderful time. And not one of them was looking under the hall table to see if there was dust on the feet.

So there came one evening when he decided that he'd had enough for the moment. It was a week until Christmas Eve, and Annie had lost all pretense of calmness and reserve. She was a wreck, to put it lightly, and he just couldn't stand seeing her like that anymore. He sent the little ones to bed, making them promise that they'd behave and stay put, and then turned his attention on his wife. She was trying to knit a hat for Jemmy as a Christmas gift, but she appeared so tired that her fingers were slipping and dropping stitches everywhere.

"Annie, why don't you put that down for a bit?" he asked gently, going over to the shelf next to the mantle to retrieve a wooden box. "You look half beaten to death."

She looked up at him with a slightly snappish face, her eyes exhausted but still annoyed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that I want you to come and play chess with me." He set the dark box on the table next to her and opened it, taking out the board and laying it flat.

Her face looked a bit confused, and unsure of what to say here. "What do you mean?"

"I know it's your favorite. And we haven't played in a long time. And I want to play with you." His eyes tried to convey that it really was as simple as that. "Please."

She still didn't quite look convinced, but set her knitting aside and turned to face him in her chair. He pulled up a chair of his own from beside the hearth, and together they began to take the pieces out of the box and set them up on the board.

"I'm still very tired, Geoff," she said, acting as though she was simply trying to humor him. "I'm not going to be a very good partner."

"I want the experience of playing a game with my wife, not the experience of a mad genious." He paused in the action of setting a pawn on the board. "If I wanted that, I'd have gone and asked Holmes."

That made her laugh, and she was now smiling at him. "All right then."

And as the game began, it was a bit obvious that Annie was not playing at her best, but she was relaxing and her laugh continued to make him smile as well. The game began to draw to a close, and he looked at her with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Bishop takes pawn?"

She shook her head at him and raised an eyebrow teasingly. "Check. And mate."

He reached across the table, drawing her close to him, and their lips met in the light from the fire. He got to his feet, pulling himself across the table and pulling her into a full embrace. As they began to make their way out of the parlor and down the hall, he smiled fondly down at her. "I love you, my darling."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The December 7th prompt, as assigned by Lucillia: "Invasion of the Baker Street Irregulars."

It was approximately half past seven in the morning on Boxing Day when Dr. John Watson was awoken by the tip of a sword at his throat and small, cold hands over his eyes and mouth.

Naturally, this was a rather unusual situation for him to find himself in, so he was quite startled as his mind attempted to regain consciousness. He became aware of voices whispering and giggling, finally hearing an overbearing "Shhhhh!" It took a moment for him to realize what was going on, and he found that he was chuckling at this entire situation. He reached up to remove the little boy's hand from his mouth, saying, "Alright boys, what's-?"

The hand was removed from his eyes, but as soon as he opened his mouth to speak, he could see one of the boys shoving a handkerchief into his mouth and then the boys were all over him, grabbing at his arms and legs and giggling like little fiends, all dressed in cowboy hats with kerchiefs tied over their mouths and clicking their new toy guns.

"You're not going anywhere, Mister!"

"We saw you robbing that bank!"

"The sheriff sent us to come and find you! You're gonna get it now!"

"Keep your hands where we can see them!"

"Did you get him, boys?"

Ten-year-old Davey Wiggins was on top of the lot now, grinning like a fiend and directing the boys as they pulled out the lassos that Holmes had been so thoughtful to give them for Christmas.

_Remind me who had the brilliant idea to outfit them as cowboys?_

* * *

Holmes stamped his foot several times on the front step, shaking the snow from his boots. He glanced up at the window of the flat as he turned his key in the lock, his attention drawn by the sound of hooting and hollering coming from the flat. Sounded like the boys were upstairs, probably giving Watson plenty of trouble. Give them enough sugar and they'll be just fine.

But when he briskly climbed the stairs and opened the door to his flat, he couldn't hide the laugh that instantly came to his lips. Watson sat in the middle of the front room, tied very efficiently to a chair with a strip of cloth in his mouth, the boys all dancing a war dance around him as they crowed, "We got him! We got the doctor!"

Watson caught his eye as soon as he opened the door, looking somewhat less than pleased at the way that this situation was going. He looked pointedly at his flat mate, his eyes clearly saying, "Come over here and untie me _right now_."

And he felt for his good friend, he certainly did. But… "I don't mean to be critical, boys, but don't you think that a war dance of that sort would better be suited to the natives, rather than the cowboys?" he asked, pulling his gloves off, loosening finger by finger.

The children considered this for a moment, all looking sheepish now that another grownup had seen what they'd been up to. Wiggins was the only one who still looked mischievous, and he shrugged at his surrogate father, his face still showing that naughty little grin. "We're just keeping the streets of London free from villains, Mr. Holmes!"

Holmes chuckled, tossing his gloves aside and rumpling the hair of the nearest boy. "Well, I think that I can handle this one, boys. Why don't you untie him and then go see if Mrs. Hudson has anything for you downstairs."

The promise of food brightened them up immediately, and all actually scampered out the door and down the stairs in an instant, leaving Holmes and Watson alone in the flat. Holmes picked his way across the mess that the boys had made, still grinning at Watson, who was looking more and more annoyed as this situation unfolded. He pulled the handkerchief from his mouth, proceeding to untie his wrists. "I trust that you're now sorry for leading them on, Watson."

And Watson just shook his head, rubbing his wrists as they were released. "The ideas that you put into their heads."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The December 8th prompt, as assigned by Spockololgist: "Wiggins has a girlfriend."

_Best boots polished, nicely patched coat, face as clean-shaven as one can expect from a dull razor…_

"Where are you off to, Wiggins?"

_Face carefully and vigorously scrubbed clean apart from a single smudge underneath one eye…_

"Just going out. Going out to church."

_Smells slightly more than faintly of Watson's cologne…_

"Going to church? On a Thursday evening?"

_Disheveled flowers hidden carefully under the jacket…_

"A charity dinner."

_Sheepish facial expression…._

"I hope she enjoys it, my boy."

_Rather defensive, pupils dilating just enough to be noticeable…_

"I don't know what you mean!"

_Father's prerogative._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what's up with the glitch that has the ending note from my first chapter on every chapter.... we just roll with it!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The December 9th prompt, as assigned by Alosha135: "Bloody Mary"

"We went to see your family last year, Geoff."

"I know, but can't we just take a year off?"

"Darling, it's just a day with my family. It's not the end of the world."

"But if they starting singing again…"

If there was one thing that Lestrade couldn't stand, it was the way that his wife's family got off on their drunken Christmas carols. Every single year that they went, her parents and her siblings would have a few, and off they would go, and it was all "angels we have heard on high" with more verses than he had previously thought existed. You could only take so much off-key slurring before you snap, and every year, he was the only one sane and awake come morning apart from the children. Or something like that.

"You're overreacting. It's not that bad."

"No? Well, we'll just see what happens this time around."

He feared that his suspicions were going to be confirmed when he saw the bottles being uncorked and the mixing began, the sound of clinking glasses seeming a bit strange next to the twinkling of the Christmas tree. Annie's brother William looked over at him and raised his glass with a dramatic swing, grinning like a fool. "What can we get you, Geoff? Whiskey and soda? Shot of vodka? Bit of rum?"

Lestrade smiled politely, folding his hands in his lap as he scanned the room for his wife. "No, thank you, Bill. I'm just fine."

Bill's grin grew wider. "I'll get you something right up, brother." And with that, he turned and disappeared over to the table holding the bottles.

"Thank you…" Lestrade tilted his chin in annoyance, but decided not to push it.

A short time later, Bill was back, brandishing a glass in a slightly shaky hand. "Bloody Mary for you, my good man! That'll put the 'air back on your chest!"

Lestrade chose not to comment, but reluctantly accepted the glass, taking a sip for politeness. And then another. And another…

* * *

The next morning, he awoke with a pounding headache and his eyes crossing in front of him. He attempted to pull himself into a sitting position, but finally gave up on it, falling back in amongst the covers. Annie looked over at him disapprovingly as he did.

"I thought you didn't approve of Christmas carols and drinking."

"What do you mean?" Lestrade kneaded his forehead and grimaced.

"Let's just say that nobody knew that you could jump or sing quite that high. Assuming anyone else remembers what happened last night, they'll be talking about that bared chest of yours for quite some time."

Lestrade stared at her incredulously. "You mean…"

She nodded, looking mockingly down at him. "Bloody Mary, my darling."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The December 10th prompt, as assigned by Sparky Dorian: "Mrs. Hudson's niece comes to stay."

The sight of a very attractive, very young woman standing in the kitchen of 221B Baker Street gave Wiggins pause as he passed through to make a report to Mr. Holmes. He'd seen women in the flat as clients, but never had he seen anyone down here, certainly not in the kitchen. No fine lady would lower herself to that. And yet here she was, as fine a lady as he had ever seen, arms covered in baking flour and a smile on her perfectly red lips…

She was laughing and speaking with Mrs. Hudson, though her words were not registering in his mind. All he could see was her face, and how lovely she was. Her hair, the way the dark strands reflected in the light from the hearth, her pale skin… her dark green dress, covered by a filthy apron.

"Davey Wiggins? Is that you?"

He jumped out of his boots as Mrs. Hudson's voice cut through his thoughts, and he realized that he was standing almost entirely within the doorframe as he stared. He blushed scarlet, coming forward into the light because he knew what would happen if he didn't listen to Mrs. Hudson. "Yes, Mrs. H. It's me."

Mrs. Hudson chuckled at him, nodding over to the woman who was helping her bake. "This is my niece, Miss Frieda Dyers. She's come to stay with me for a few days to help me with my cooking before the holidays. Frieda, this is Davey Wiggins, an associate of Mr. Holmes."

The girl smiled at him, wiping her hands on her apron and turning to look at him. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wiggins."

He gawked at her for a moment before he remembered which way was up and hastily attempted to scour his own hand on his smoky jacket. Shaking her hand, he tried to play it down and smile coolly at her. "The pleasure is mine, Miss Dyers."

She smiled again before going back to her work, apparently set to resume her conversation with Mrs. Hudson. And before the elder woman went back to work, she looked over at Wiggins and shook her head amusedly. "I do believe that she's a bit too much for you, my dear. Spoken for."

"Of course she is," said Wiggins, not really having heard a word that she'd just said. Then it registered and he looked up at Mrs. Hudson in horror. "You mean…"

"Yes, I'm afraid that I do." And she looked regretful too.

"Oh, that's fine. Perfectly fine." And as Wiggins trooped up the stairs to Mr. Holmes' flat, he tried his best not to look back. Maybe there was still a chance… if he set his mind to it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The December 11th prompt, as assigned by Spockologist: "Holmes is asked to pose for a portrait"

"I had rather hoped that you'd outgrown your water colors stage, Watson. It really does seem to be most childish, and not an obsession for a grown man who is already immersed in fiction."

"Nonsense. Art is a respectable hobby for a gentleman. Think of all the artists throughout history! A good majority of them were grown men."

"Perhaps. But I don't think that they went around convincing flat mates to wear ridiculous costumes while they painted."

"You look dashing, Holmes. Just hold still while I finish this sketch."

"I hardly think that anyone from the reign of Queen Elizabeth looked 'dashing.' These puffy sleeves are ridiculous."

"Holmes, this was the height of fashion in those days. And do you have any idea how difficult it is to find such sleeves as those?"

"I daresay it is difficult because everyone in this modern age knows better than to wear sleeves that are so puffed that one cannot see directly to the side. Are you entirely sure that this is Elizabethan?"

"As sure as I needed to be. It doesn't really matter though. You still look fabulous.

"Mmm. Well, I'm not convinced."

"You don't have to be. It's the aesthetic that makes a painting, and I'm sure that this one is going to be amazing."

"And what exactly are you planning to do with this portrait when it's done?"

"I'll… find something."

"That portrait never leaves this room, Watson. Never."


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The December 12th prompt, as assigned by Spockologist: "Mycroft is sick."

Collapsing in the middle of the Diogenes Club was just about the most hypocritical thing that he had ever done in his entire life, never mind the fact that he would later discover the true extent of his illness. That much of him was completely irrelevant, when one considered the looks that he had been given as he'd keeled over, narrowly missing a disgusting pile of his own vomit that had been ejected from his system only a few seconds before.

The looks were a mixture of pity, horror, and pure annoyance, depending on which way he turned his head. The staff was there in an instant, of course, lifting him to his feet and carrying him out, some already cleaning up the mess, some patting the air wildly in a silent effort to calm the masses of gentlemen in the club. Mycroft could certainly understand their reaction; if they'd wanted any noise, they could have gone to any other gentlemen's club in London. And he was ashamed that he'd let his illness get the better of him in any case. He should have known better and had vacated the premises much sooner than that, but the article in the paper had been so thrilling…

He'd been helped into his carriage outside, though the time that it had taken to get there was so full of silence that it was completely unnerving. One would have expected a great deal of chitchat from a group of men in white gloves hustling a man down a corridor, but the only sound was that made by their feet on the rug that had been specially designed to muffle noise. Even when they'd reached the outside and nearly slipped on a patch of snow on the street, the only sound was their sharp intake of breath as they tried to stop the inevitable falling. His tailor was going to appreciate that one…

He'd been taken home, carried off to bed, and then given a diagnosis of some kind of flu before he was given a cup of tea with lemon and strict orders to stay in bed until further notice. Which was not a very pleasant prospect, but he found that whatever the doctor had shot into his arm was now taking effect, and he was dropping off into a deep sleep, complaining the whole while that he was certainly not tired and that this was ridiculous, and did they know who he was…

When he woke, he realized that he had been asleep for far longer than he'd anticipated. While it had been midday when he'd fallen under, it was now dark outside from what he could tell of the lack of light coming from the drawn curtains. He attempted to sit up in bed, but found that his head was throbbing so badly that he could not hope to get anywhere near to a sitting position. He sighed, falling back before drifting off to sleep once more.

His eyes opened again to see his younger brother perched at the end of the bed, his jacket impeccably straight and his shoes polished to perfection, resting on his bedclothes. "Sherlock?" he slurred, not realizing just how far gone his mental capacities apparently were. That was not a familiar feeling. "What are you doing here?"

"Your man sent me a message to tell me that you were ill," said his brother, hopping down from his seat to move over next to him. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Let me sleep, brother." Mycroft rolled over in bed, not in any mood to be sociable to anyone.

"When was the last time you had anything to drink?" asked Sherlock, merrily ignoring his brother's grumbles. "You know how you get when you don't take in enough liquids."

"I'm a grown man, Sherlock. I can take care of myself."

"I'm sure you can. But you don't have to."

Mycroft shifted his weight again so that he was now facing his brother. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that I'm here for you when you need me."

Mycroft paused for a long moment as Sherlock began to wring out a cloth that was sitting in some warm water by the bed. "Thank you, Sherlock."


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The December 13th prompt, as assigned by KnightFury: "Fog"

Some nights, London is laden with fog. Some nights the atmosphere is thick enough to be cut with the point of a needle. One can hardly see but for the soft light of the gas lamps, the city burdened with quiet and mystery.

On these nights, Mary Watson stands watch at her front door, her faithful hound at her side. She watches and waits, peering into the swirling darkness. Her dressing gown pulled tight, her hair falling over her shoulders, she is the picture of innocence. Her canine friend puts his head in her lap, his ears ever intent and listening.

It is on these nights that she worries. There is much uncertain, much unknown. On those nights where she cannot see, cannot hear, she wonders where he is. She awaits the click of steps on the cobblestones, the tapping of his cane as he walks. She listens for his gait, hoping that he will return to her safe and sound. She knows that she can never be certain of his safety.

She sits in the window, sits and waits. Her vigil is kept by the light of the fire in the hearth, by the dying coals of the stove. As she begins to nod, the sound she awaits comes clear. And her eyes begin to smile as she greets him.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The December 14th prompt, as assigned by Alosha135: "ashes"

Mr. Holmes had requested that he clean out Mrs. Hudson's chimney in the kitchen as long as he was in the neighborhood. So, Wiggins had agreed, though he was a bit confused at the apparent twinkle in his guardian's eyes. Certainly, he'd looked a bit flushed and out of breath when he'd mounted the stairs, and yes, he'd looked a bit disheveled. But that didn't mean anything other than he'd been in a hurry… right?

He should have known that Mr. Holmes would have been able to figure out his appearance in a heartbeat. And his suspicions were confirmed as he opened the door to go downstairs, and Mr. Holmes called out, "Miss Dyers is a very handsome woman."

Wiggins had looked back incredulously at Mr. Holmes, shaking his head and staring in embarrassment. "Who, sir?"

And Mr. Holmes, in his infinite wisdom, had given such a smirk as he'd lit his pipe…

He climbed up on the roof with all of his tools, and began to stick his spiky brush down the chimney. He scrubbed for a long moment before a terrible thought occurred to him… _They're still in the kitchen!_

And the more-than-slightly ash-covered shrieks from below him confirmed that. _Mr. Holmes!_


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The December 15th prompt, as assigned by Lucillia: "The mystery of the missing breakfast."

Little Jemmy Lestrade was quite suspicious when he saw that Mummy was not the one making breakfast. Daddy never cooked in the kitchen because Mummy was always saying that he always left a great big mess. What was he doing in here today?

Jemmy saw that Sadie was confused too. She came into the kitchen with her favorite doll, Lis, and rubbing her eyes because it was still very early. Daddy was not a very quiet cook either. They both came into the room and sat down at the table by the hearth, feeling very sleepy and confused, and wondering how long it was going to take for Mummy to catch Daddy making a mess.

He was trying to make some eggs, but he'd left the shells all over the counter and there were drops of bacon grease everywhere. Mummy wasn't going to like all that good grease being wasted. There was also some toast over the fire, but Daddy hadn't latched the toaster properly, so the bread was starting to burn and flame from inside the iron tongs. It didn't smell good at all, and Jemmy wrinkled his nose, wishing that Mummy would just come around and fix everything because he was getting pretty hungry.

"Dad?" he asked, holding his teddy bear up so that he could see what was going on.

"Yes, Jemmy?" Daddy was looking a bit confused as he tried to pull the burning toast out of the fire and keep it from setting everything else on fire.

"Why isn't Mummy making us breakfast? She does a better job at it."

Daddy laughed, finally throwing the charred remains of toast back into the hearth. "Because Mummy wanted a break. She said that if we wanted breakfast, we were going to have to find it. She already made herself some."

Sadie looked thoughtful. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Yes, Mummy says that we should never play in her kitchen, even Daddy. It's too dangerous."

"I can figure this out," Daddy said, but he did a funny dance as the eggs complained at him from the stove. "It's not that hard to make breakfast."

"Are you sure about that?"

Jemmy turned around and saw Mummy standing in the doorway in her dressing gown. He ran over to hug her legs as she laughed at Daddy. "Would you like some help, dear?"

"I'm sure that I can figure this one out!" said Daddy. "I'm a police investigator at Scotland Yard. Making breakfast for two children should be a cinch!"

Mummy still laughed at him. "Well, perhaps if you open the larder, you can get them their breakfast before you're late and lose the title of police investigator." She nudged Jemmy, who went over to the cabinet and opened it. He laughed and clapped his hands as Sadie ran over to get her food. Mummy had left an entire breakfast hot in the larder, and the children smiled with glee as they picked up their plates.

As they started eating, Jemmy looked over to see Mummy and Daddy hugging each other and then… kissing! Ewww!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The December 16th prompt, as assigned by Alosha135: "Mycroft dies"

My dear Sherlock,

It is my hope that this letter finds you in good health. It pains me that this letter has at last found itself in your hands, but we both knew that this day would come. I have instructed my solicitor Marston to personally deliver this into your own hands on the occasion of my death, for I would rather not assume that you will find it in amongst my personal belongings.

I trust that you knew this already, but I do not want there to be any great fuss. A simple funeral will suit my needs greatly, and it is not my wish that you should mourn for me, dear brother. Marston will not bring my will on this occasion, but he will read it when the time is right. I have left the bulk of my estate to your humble self, though the good doctor and his wife are entitled to such a share as well. I trust that you will put the money to good use, and I leave such things to your discretion. Know that I have left you the last remembrances of our dear parents, as well as our uncle's pipe which you have always admired.

Do not mourn for me, Sherlock. It is true that we have had our differences in this world, as all brothers must. But you have always been the bigger man, throughout everything that we have been through. And I trust that my legacy will live on in you.

I remain, dearest brother, ever yours,

Mycroft Holmes


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The December 17th prompt, as assigned by Book girl fan: “Winter in London.”

Ice in the streets, snow blowing everywhere the eye can see… horses running up and down, dragging their loads and carts… boots and shoes moving to and fro, busily shopping for all their Christmas necessities… carols and chatter, echoing from building to building…

Tiny, whiskered nose wrinkles and squeaks indignantly, scurrying across the street to avoid the flurry of movement.  Tiny paws skating over the icy cobblestones, slipping and sliding everywhere.  Tiny tail disappears under the door, squeezing tight.  Running up the stairs, squeezing under the door, smelling the food and the fire.  Observing the two gentlemen… a feeling of calm!  Until the chemistry set explodes.

Oh dear.


End file.
